DX

So every night

you build a little house

You dig a hole

and cover it with logs

A house you

sleep beside

and hope not

to enter

Cover the logs

with sandbags

against the

shrapnel weather

Some nights you wake

to noise and light

and metal singing

Roll out of the bag

and into the house

with all the scorpions

centipedes roaches

but no bullets flying inside it

Most nights

you just sleep

deep sleep

and dreamless

mostly

from labor

This night was just sleep.

In the morninghours of work

You unbuild the houseagain

for nothing

Kick the logs away

pour out the sandbags

into the hole

Roll up the sandbags

for the next night's bit

of rural urban renewal

Eat some cold bad food

Clean your weapon

Drink instant coffee

from a can

Check the tape on

the grenades;

check the pins.

Most carefully

repack the demolition

bag: blasting caps

TNT plastic timefuse

det cord--

ten kilograms of fragile

most instant

death

Inspect ammo clips

(Clean the top

rounds with

illegal

gasoline.)

Then shoulder the heavy rucksack

Secure your weapons and tools

and follow the other primates

into the jungle

watching the trees

walk silently

as possible

through the green

watching the ground

Don't get too close

to the man in front of you

This is good advice:

don't let the enemy

have two targets.

Remember that: don't get too close to any man.

Only a fool, or an officer

doesn't grab the ground

at the first shot

even if it's rather distant

high-pitched

rattle

of M-16s

louder

Russian rifles

answer

even if it's

a couple of klicks away

manly chug

of heavy

machineguns

God knows which way they're shooting

grenade's

flat

bang

Like fools, or officers,

we get up off the ground and move

All that metal

flying through

the air--

and do we move away from it?

no

We make haste

in the wrong direction

making lots of noise now

who cares now

like fools or officers

we head for the action

but careful not to bunch up

Remember: Don't get too close to any man.

It's over before we get there.

The enemy, not fools

(perhaps lacking officers)

went in the proper direction.

As we approach

the abandoned enemy camp

a bit of impolite and

(perhaps to you)

incomprehensible

dialogue greets us:

"You wanna get some

X-Rays down here?

Charlie left

a motherfuckin'

DX pile

behind."

TERMS:

X-Rays are engineers,

demolition men,

us.

Charlie is the enemy.

"DX" means destroy;

a DX pile is a collection

of explosives that are no longer

trustworthy. When you leave

the camp finally, you

put a long fuse on the DX pile, and

blow it up.

(Both "motherfucker" and "DX"

are technical terms that can serve

as polite euphemisms:

"Private,

you wanna

DX that

mother-

fucker?"

instead

of

"Private,

kill

that

man.")

We'd been lucky.

No shooting.

Just a pile of

explosive

leftovers

to dispose of.

And we'd done it before.

It was quite a pile,

though,

taller than a man

enough to kill

everybody

with some left over

artillery shells

mortar rounds

satchel charges

rifle grenades

all

festooned with chains of

fifty-caliber ammunition

The major wouldn't let us

evacuate his troops

then put a long fuse on the pile

We had to stand there

nervous

and guard it

no

They'd been working hard

first they get lunch and a nap

then we can move them out

and we can blow it.

(we liked his "we")

We didn't know

it was wired for sound

it was booby-trapped

Remember: don't get too close to any man:

Don't know that Farmer

has an actual farm waiting

back in Alabama

and

Don't know that Crowder

has new grandbabies

and is headed

for retirement

when he gets home

and

don't know that Doc

was a basketball champ

in his black high school

and really did want

to be a doctor

Because they all are

one short beep

of a radio detonator

away

from

a sound

so loud

you don't

hear it

really

grey smoke

blood

It just hits you like a car.

everywhere blood

and screaming

Sergeant Crowder

separated from one foot

is unconscious

or stoic

Doc

both his long legs

blown off

dies quickly

Farmer had his belly spilled

but lived long enough to

shout

"Professor?

Where'd they get

you?"

and

since I didn't have

enough breath

for a complete

catalogue

(foot shins knees

thigh groin genitals

arm ear scalp and

disposition)

I settled for "the balls."

"Oh my God"

Farmer said

then he died

Two days later

I woke up in a dirty hospital

(sewed up like Frankenstein's charge)

woke up in time

to see Crowder leave

with a sheet over his eyes

and so it was over

in a way

the whole squad DX

but me

there is nothing for it

there is nothing you can take for it

they are names on a wall now

they are compost in Arlington

and somehow I am not

but give me this

There are three other universes, like this:

In one, Farmer curses the rain

wrestles his tractor through the mud

curses the bank that owns it

and sometimes remembers

that he alone survived

In another Crowder tells grown

grandchildren

for the hundredth time

over a late-night whiskey

his one war story that

beats the others all to hell

In the third Doc stands over a bloody patient

steady hand, healing knife

and some times he recalls

blood years past and sometimes

remembers to be glad to be alive;

in these worlds

I am dead

and at peace.

--Joe Haldeman